Devil's Plaything (16 page)

I
gently turn Grandma's chin so she faces me. Her blue eyes blink and skirt my gaze and her bottom lip quivers. I've smudged a dusting of black ash from my hands onto her face when I touched her chin and try gently to brush it away.

“Grandma, please tell me what you told the box.”

“I'm not who you think I am.”

Her words sound distant, unconnected, indirect.

“What do you mean?”

“I'm a liar. I lied, and I lied.”

“About what?”

“You're Nathaniel Idle,” she says.

“I am.”

“You're not who you think you are.”

Do these words have meaning?

“Who am I?”

“Well, you're my grandson.”

I hear a siren, and see another police car coming. It slows as it passes us, then cruises by.

“Hold that thought, Grandma.”

I start my car again, and find it has enough juice to allow me to pull it around the corner of the building to the parking lot, which is littered with a handful of weather-stained bathtubs and sinks, and a cracked urinal.

Chuck's phone rings. “Chuck's phone,” I answer.

“Chuck here,” he says.

“Chuck, this isn't the best time, unless you've called with some new information.”

“Have some—about Lulu Pederson.”

Grandma stares ahead, lost somewhere else.

“Let's hear it,” I say.

“Let's get together.”

“Chuck, please.” The lighthearted part of my personality has left the building. “Help me now.”

He clears his throat.

“She was born January 5, 1972. African-American. Raised by intellectuals in Berkeley; her father worked as a public defender. Her mother was a doctor, working in a free clinic in Berkeley helping the indigent aging population. She—her first name is Lulu but she goes by Adrianna—attended college at Berkeley, and then . . .”

I interrupt him. “Tell me where it gets interesting.”

“You're not interested that she's allergic to cats? Remarkable what you can find with some help from military databases.”

“Move on.”

“She got a PhD from Stanford in neurobiology, and she . . .”

“Get to Biogen.”

“I'm not sure what you're looking for, but Stanford might be pertinent. In the mid-nineties, she wrote a ground-breaking paper on how hyper-stimulation from media impacts neurological capacities through production of cortisol.”

Cortisol.

“The stress hormone. What did she say about it?” I ask.

“I haven't seen the paper, just an executive summary. It has something to do with cell division in some parts of the brain and what happens to it—cell division—during heavy sensory input, or something like that.”

“E-mail me the abstract. Get to Biogen.”

“You're impatient.”

“Way beyond that.”

I look at Grandma. She's removed her wedding ring and twirls it in her hand.

“This part is, how do you call it, off the record.”

“Fine. Go.”

“My source tells me there's a secret project at Biogen. Adrianna runs it. ADAM. Advanced Development . . .”

I cut him off. “ . . . Advanced Development and Memory 1.0. It's a piece of software, or, rather a program. It has to do with measuring or impacting neurological functions.”

“You know this already?”

“Just that much. How does it work? Is it a program that's used in a lab, or that gets disseminated? Is it an algorithm? Is it used to measure neurological changes, or to actually cause them?”

“I don't know much more beyond that. I can't understand much of what's in this file.”

“Can you e-mail it to me?”

“It's a hard-copy dossier.”

“Dossier? From where?”

“I'm coming to that. You know that Biogen is in high-level merger talks with a Swiss company.”

“Go on.”

“Apparently, our government has been keeping tabs on Biogen and its various projects. This has caught someone's attention.”

“Someone?”

“Regulator, I suppose.”

I pause.

“Nathaniel?”

“Chuck, respectfully, it's hard for me to believe you have this kind of access. It doesn't make sense you could know this much information, let alone get hard proof.”

“Nat, respectfully yourself, I told you I could be a good friend.”

I hear the engine of a car. It has turned into the lot of the building we're in front of. Maybe it's the Witch and Bullseye.

“Meet me in the city tonight,” Chuck says. “I'll bring the file.”

He tells me the name of a restaurant in Noe Valley where he'll be at 8:30 p.m.

“Hold on, Chuck.”

A car starts to come around the other corner of the building, heading at us. I realize what's happening, just as Grandma says: “The bad man.”

The Prius has turned the corner. Its driver is the man with the hooded gray sweatshirt. He's rolling down his window, barreling towards us. I see the car framed against the ash blue sky in the distance, an instant of slow motion. We are going to die.

And then I see the cavalry.

Speeding around our corner of the building hurls Samantha and Bullseye in their shiny Cadillac.

I expect to hear the pop of bullets and the shattering of glass in my window. But instead hear a violent crack. Bullseye ramming fearlessly into the right back of the Prius.

The Prius juts forward, slams into a bathtub, which redirects the hybrid's momentum and causes it to spin in circles. The churning tires begin to spray dust and gravel, and then it, abruptly, comes to rest. In the dust swirl, I can make out little except the terrific dent to the back, illuminated by brake lights. The car lurches forward and turns our direction. I think I can make out the outlines of the hooded man's face, and the bathtub-caused dent to the Prius's crumpled right fender, as he flies past us and disappears around the end of the building. Gone.

I look up to see Samantha running towards our car. She's wearing black tights and a puffy orange shirt, still dressed as a lioness. She reaches Grandma's window, which I roll down.

“My father drove a Cadillac,” Lane says, calmly. “Maybe it was a Chevrolet.”

“Oh, Lane,” Sam says.

She helps Grandma step out of the car. I sprint around the Toyota's front end and join them, taking one of Lane's arms while the Witch takes the other. We hustle her to the Cadillac. Its right front bumper and that side of the hood has a crinkled dent that looks like a seismograph. The driver's-side back door is indented by the bathtub it must have slid into after the cars collided.

Using the door on the other side, Grandma and I pile into the pristine black leather seats in the back. “I'm sorry, Bullseye, and thank you.”

Bullseye looks at us, makes some silent calculation, then starts to accelerate forward.

“Go after him?” he asks. But it sounds more like a statement than a question.

“Wait.” I pause him. I return to my defunct Toyota. From the back, I retrieve my ragged backpack and the laptop that contains the whole of my virtual existence. I climb back into the Cadillac and Bullseye drives off. We head to the on-ramp of Highway 101. The wrecked Prius is nowhere in sight.

“I need to borrow a car,” I say.

“Should we call the police?” Samantha says. “You're a great investigative journalist but this seems to call for people with the power to detain, arrest, and punish.”

She's right—about the second part.

I pull out Chuck's phone. I dial 911. Before I hit “send,” Bullseye intercedes.

“You should read this first,” he says. Over the back of the seat, he extends a hand, holding a dozen pieces of paper stapled together.

I close the phone and take the papers.

The first one is headed: Transcript from the Human Memory Crusade. June 19, 2010.

Subject: Lane Eliza Idle.

I'm looking at the secrets Grandma told the box.

TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.

THIS IS A SECTION OF OUR PREVIOUS CONVERSATION:

“
I slid the man the piece of paper and he looked at it—for a long time. Then he looked in the direction of my father and Irving. They were locked in conversation, and the man nodded. Then he took his change, and he turned and left. I noticed that he was wearing boots, which surprised me. It was summer, and he was wearing thick work boots. He walked out the door.
”

YOU HAVEN'T SPOKEN FOR A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?

Yes.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH THE STORY, OR WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ANOTHER ACTIVITY, LIKE PLAY A GAME?

I tried to follow Pigeon in his cracked leather boots. But I couldn't follow him. And I got so frustrated. That day, and the next day, and the next. He didn't come back to the bakery. He left me there with that white envelope, sealed and mysterious, and I started to wonder what on Earth could he have asked me to hide. It was like . . . there's a book, oh, you know, the story with the beating heart that drives the man in the castle crazy. Poe, right. It was Edgar Allan Poe. That was what the envelope was like. My imagination was really churning too. Did it have to do with something secret, or . . . When did the war happen? Maybe I thought it had to do with the war. Wait, the war came after. Please, please, can you stop with the butterflies? They are really messing around with my concentration.

DID YOU ASK ABOUT THE BUTTERFLIES?

I'm trying to talk about something. I finally couldn't stand it. I went to the alley, and . . .

I'M NOT SURE I UNDERSTOOD YOU. CAN YOU SPEAK INTO THE MICROPHONE?

I was laughing. I'm laughing. My memory is going, I know that. But I can remember this so clearly. It was such a moment in my life. I took the envelope from the black safe, and I tucked it into the top of my stockings. This was before they rationed stockings. And . . . anyhow, I went into the alley. I tried for the umpteenth time to look through the envelope at what was inside. I couldn't see. From the kitchen, I'd taken a short knife, like the kind you use to thinly slice the loaves for Friday night and Sunday morning. I cut open the top of the envelope. Out dropped a piece of lined paper, like from a school notebook. In block handwriting, very formal, it said—I'll never forget because I still have the paper, though the writing has faded—it said: “SECRET INSTRUCTIONS ON PG. 45 OF ‘ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND.' DENVER PUBLIC LIBRARY, SECOND FLOOR.” I read it again, and again, and again. And then I went right in to my father, and I said: “I've got to go to the library.” And he said to me: “It's terrible in Poland. Didn't I tell you it was going to be terrible there? We were so smart to leave because we could have wound up dead. Be careful going to the library. It's a bad time to be outside in the world.” And I didn't hear a word he said because I was so determined. I . . . I realize that I'm just talking and talking. Have I told you all this before? I'm . . . I'm having trouble remembering.

DID YOU SAY YOU'RE HAVING TROUBLE REMEMBERING?

Yes.

YOU GREW UP IN DENVER. DO YOU REMEMBER THAT?

Yes. Of course.

MAY I TAKE A MOMENT TO RECAP WHAT WE TALKED ABOUT IN THE PAST?

I suppose.

THANK YOU. YOU TOLD ME ABOUT YOUR FATHER, WHO WORKED IN A BAKERY IN DENVER. YOU HAVE SHARED MANY STORIES ABOUT THE BAKERY AND THE PEOPLE YOU MET THERE. I HAVE RECORDED THOSE STORIES FOR YOU. YOU ALSO TALKED ABOUT YOUR HUSBAND, WHO WAS NAMED IRVING. WHEN YOU WERE MARRIED, IT WAS A FESTIVE OCCASION. HE WORE A MILITARY UNIFORM, WHICH WAS CUSTOMARY AT THE TIME. HE WORKED AS AN ACCOUNTANT AND HE DROVE A CHEVROLET. THE CHEVROLET WAS BLUE. PRIOR TO GETTING MARRIED, YOU ATTENDED HIGH SCHOOL IN DENVER. WHEN YOU WERE A YOUNG WOMAN, YOU HEARD ABOUT THE OUTBREAK OF WORLD WAR II ON A LARGE, BLACK RADIO. SHALL I CONTINUE?

I . . . no, I think that is okay.

HAVE I ACCURATELY RECORDED YOUR INFORMATION?

I think so. I . . .

HAVE I ACCURATELY RECORDED THAT YOUR HUSBAND WORE A MILITARY UNIFORM ON YOUR WEDDING DAY?

I . . . I think so.

THANK YOU. IT IS IMPORTANT TO ME TO BE ACCURATE WITH THE DETAILS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?

The butterfly has a message for me.

ARE YOU ASKING IF THE BUTTERFLY HAS A MESSAGE FOR YOU?

It is flying in the middle of the screen, and there are lights and sounds coming from its dots.

TO RETRIEVE THE MESSAGE, PLEASE MOVE THE CURSOR OVER ONE OF THE DOTS.

THANK YOU. WELL DONE. HERE IS YOUR MESSAGE: THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR STORIES WITH US. WE ARE PROUD TO BE PART OF SAVING THE MEMORIES OF A GREAT GENERATION OF AMERICANS. YOU SHOULD BE PROUD OF YOURSELF FOR TAKING THE TIME TO SHARE YOUR STORIES. YOUR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN WILL BE VERY GRATEFUL FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE SHARING YOUR STORY, OR WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ANOTHER ACTIVITY, SUCH AS PLAY A GAME?

ARE YOU STILL THERE?

“Nathaniel!”

I look up from Grandma's transcript to see Sam staring at me with great intensity. It takes a moment to pull out of the past.

“My grandfather wasn't in the military,” I say.

“What are you talking about?”

“This transcript says that when my grandparents got married, Irving wore a military uniform. That's just not correct.”

I look at Grandma. “Did Irving wear a uniform when you got married?”

“You know I don't remember things the way I used to.”

“So Grandpa didn't wear a uniform when you got married?”

“Irving wore a military uniform when we got married. He drove a Chevrolet.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm tired.”

“Who is Pigeon?” I ask. I recall that on several occasions she mentioned that name, or nickname. I can't remember where, or in what context.

“Nat, she looks tired. Maybe give her a break?” Sam asks.

“This transcript is beyond strange.”

“There's more,” Bullseye says. “I've only printed out a third of the transcript. The rest I e-mailed you and copied to another disc, for backup.”

“Is it all weird like this?”

“How do you mean?”

It seems so self-evident.

“The bizarre back-and-forth between human and computer, the computer's high level of artificial intelligence, the butterflies—whatever those are. And then there's Grandma's story. I can't tell if it's real or imagined. It's certainly provocative. I've never heard anything like that from her.”

Bullseye doesn't respond. He's focused on the road, or the inside of his head.

“Bullseye?”

“The artificial intelligence doesn't seem that advanced, actually. The program is basically looking for keywords in your grandmother's comments and prompting further discussion by emphasizing the keywords. As to your grandmother . . . well . . .”

“What?”

“She's losing her memory, and trying to recall some childhood memory, and this . . . machine is recording it.”

“It's much more than that, Bullseye.” I'm exasperated. “I wish you would have printed it all out.”

“Can you solve that later?” Sam interjects. “I think Lane needs her own bed.”

I look outside, and I realize where we are—parked on the street outside the Magnolia Manor nursing home.

“Jesus,” I say.

“You want me to take her?” Sam asks.

“Absolutely not. No way. Drive, Bullseye.”

“Nathaniel, please,” Sam says. “She's got to be in the right hands.”

“Drive. Please. She can't be here. They'll . . .” I don't say what I'm thinking: they'll kill her. For reasons I can't yet figure out. Instead I say: “I have a plan.”

Sam sighs.

“What?” I ask. Beyond impatient.

“Respectfully,” she says. “You seem out of balance. Let me take your beautiful grandmother inside.”

I don't respond.

Samantha looks at Bullseye. “I'll be back in five minutes,” then back at Lane. “Ready to go home, dear?”

“No fucking way,” I blurt.

“Nathaniel . . .”

“You need to trust me.”

“And you need to trust the people around you—the people who love you, and know you. We're on your side.”

“Bullseye, why didn't you bring the rest of the transcript?”

“It was long and he didn't have enough paper and he's not your secretary,” Sam says firmly. She's looking me in the eye. I've never in my life heard her talk this way. It's the first time I've ever had a confrontation with my best friends, my biggest supporters.

I don't know what I'm thinking, or even why I said something vaguely accusatory to Bullseye. I
am
out of balance, I know that. But there's no way I'm letting anyone take care of Grandma, or dictate her care.

Sam says, “You can do all the goose-chasing you want. But don't take your grandmother with you. Please.”

She looks at me, and I at Bullseye.

“Drive,” I say, quietly.

He hesitates.

“If you care about me, about us—about Grandma—then you'll help me do what I need to do.”

I tell them what that is.